The Stardust Between Explosions

on the title of my forthcoming memoir, which may never forthcome

Writing memoir is simultaneously natural and cathartic for me, because I’ve always been a journaling type, and terrifying and impossible because I still can’t quite get that voice out of my head: What will people think if they read this?

The older I’ve gotten, and the more I’ve shared my work, the less that voice intrudes, but it still nags from time to time, it still digs under my skin threatening to live there. As I revise, it taunts me a bit: No one cares, no one cares, no one cares. It makes me question if I’m able to convey anything in a way that makes sense to other people. Will they understand the cause and effect of my experiences and choices? Will they have empathy or disgust when they see inside my soul? Will they like me?

The voice doesn’t intrude much at all day to day in real life, but when I write with an intention to share that work, that little monster creeps right back in. The writing process becomes a reflection not only of my past, but of that tape that used to loop in my head when I was younger–you’re not worth it–in a very real and present way.

Interestingly, overcoming that lie is a huge part of what this memoir is about. Story arc wise, it’s a love story about me and my husband, but it’s also a story about learning to love myself even while that little thorn of unworthiness is something I can’t completely get out of my personhood as I write it! Especially when rehashing events of my life that I can see so much clearer than when I was actually living through them. Sometimes it’s hard to not be too critical of my younger self, or too defensive.

When writing fiction, there’s a concept of the “lie your character believes in” or a “misbelief” that becomes an undercurrent to that character’s choices in the story. This concept is one of my most favorite things to explore when I’m drafting a new story because it’s based so firmly in psychology and just like in real life, nothing can happen in a character’s story if they don’t make choices. There is no plot if they don’t make choices. Newer writers frequently make the mistake of deciding on plot points before they decide what drives their character–that misbelief under the surface–and therefore create stories without logic or emotion.

In my life, the belief that I was not worth it–-which over five decades has taken on various forms from “I’m not worth salvation” to “I’m not worth wanting a donut”--caused me to make a lot of choices in situations where I wasn’t fully on board for whatever reason, and I ignored my gut instinct. When I was young it was usually easier to deny myself what I wanted if it allowed me to avoid any potential uncomfortable feelings or conflict with another person. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but mostly I didn’t like to feel. Frankly I still don’t love it, though I have come to appreciate the growth that comes through feeling because of the depth of love or openness or honesty emotion can bring. I sound so didactic writing it out like that, but I am the type who thinks about emotions more than I feel emotions, at least at first. I have a hard time allowing myself to feel some sort of way until I understand why I’m feeling it. But because of the inability to lean in to those feelings in my younger years, or accept I wanted something different than another person or that it was okay to change my mind, I made choices that kept me caged, emotionally stunted, and ignorant. I’m being vague about the details because they are for the memoir, and I’m mostly marveling at the way editing moments from my past makes me reflect on those experiences on yet another level.

Recently I started a small group for women in which we share what’s going on in our lives through conversation and writing. The goal was to support each other under the common ground of simply being women writers, an alternative to social media where many writers flock, and a way to stay connected and vulnerable without feeling scrutinized or having our work torn apart workshop-style. When we first got started, I was in a total writing slump, tinkering on random projects on random days. Although I don’t know if slump is the right word because I didn’t feel badly about it. I think the break has been good.

From 2012 to about 2022, I was driving myself hard into words. I think it’s important to have a steady and dedicated writing practice, but I also think it’s important to recognize you might need a break. Between 2018 and 2023, so many enormous plot points, if you will, exploded onto the scene, and rocked that dedication. There have been times in the past that these kinds of explosions sent me into escape mode, sent me to the page as a way to not face what was actually happening in my life. But I’ve left that kind of living behind and had to recreate a reason to write not solely as an escape from reality, but as an adornment, the icing on top. The stardust between explosions.

The writing group, some new opportunities, and the deep desire to stay connected to this craft, and myself, has kickstarted my dedication. I’ve never been the kind of writer who cares about word counts as a signpost of progress. That feels far too superficial. For me, progress is in how what I’ve written makes me feel, which yes, is strangely the exact opposite of how I handle reality. Have I reached something important in the story, even if that importance is just for me? Have I hit on an unexpected emotion? Have I discovered something new about a character? Has my craft improved? These are the things that make writing worth the challenge, the frustration, and the sacrifice one has to sometimes make to finish a project.

But these are also the things that make me worth it. I can’t let myself be driven by what I fear others might think. As I write and revise, it only matters what I think. As you write and revise your project, it only matters what you think. A time for collaboration and critique may come, but don’t let it haunt you before you finish. Don’t cage yourself before you learn how to fly.